Isobel
by Lavender and Hay
Summary: Series 1, AU of the Clarkson/Isobel relationship. He knows he knows her from somewhere. He remembers her.
1. Chapter 1

**I haven't done a serious wooing story for a while, and I'm not sure if I've ever written one for Clarkson/Isobel. For Batwings by way of a Happy Christmas. **

He had known almost as soon as he saw her that he'd seen her before. Where he did not know, but he had seen before, he was certain. It had been a long time ago. Memory being the uncertain thing that it is, he could not vouch for how much her appearance had changed overall, only that the things about her that he had particularly remembered had not changed in the slightest. He remembered, from somewhere in his younger days when he'd attended functions and receptions and drinks in the evening, that one night he had come across a woman- who in age was little more than a girl, but who had the assured air of someone much older- with the most remarkable eyes, thick light brown hair, and the slightest little dimples that you would miss if you were not watching closely. He remembered also that she had been very thoroughly engaged; he remembered hearing this, and his heart sinking. Allowing her to walk gracefully back off into the crowd, in her pale purple dress.

And now he was being introduced to her again, and being told that she answered to the name of Mrs Isobel Crawley.

For a moment he was sure that his mind was playing tricks on him. The chances, after all, of him coming across her again must have been implausibly slight. But no, as a doctor's wife, there was every possibility that she'd have been at one of those dreadful Medical Board receptions at least once. And giving the dull level of company that one usually encountered there, it was no wonder she'd stood out. And she still like to wear purple.

It occurred to him very suddenly that he hadn't said anything, that he probably should say something, and that he'd been gazing at her in profound shock for several moments, holding onto her hand. He would be prepared to bet his life's earnings that she did not remember him, and found his behaviour odd in the extreme.

He glanced apologetically towards Lady Grantham.

"I beg your pardon, your Ladyship," he told her, clearing his throat.

"It's quite alright, Dr Clarkson," she told him graciously, then, surveying the pair of the curiously, "Do you and Mrs Crawley know each other, by any chance?"

Before he could open his mouth to reply- though heaven knows what he was going to say-, she had answered for him.

"Not at all, I'm afraid not." She had a soft voice, refined and perfect diction, but unmistakeably soft round the edges, "Though I hope that's about to change."

And a warm smile. That was soft too; vulnerable, almost. He looked towards her Ladyship.

"Cousin Isobel was wondering if she might be able to do anything to help here at the hospital," Lady Grantham explained, "She made me promise to introduce you both."

"Oh, more than that. I almost dragged you here!"

He could not remember having heard her speak or seen her laugh the last time he's met her, yet both her smile and her laugh seemed to affirm his conviction that this _was_ her. Yes, he was sure of it.

"Well," he cleared his throat, not without a little nervousness, "You certainly seem keen enough, Mrs Crawley. And I dare say I could find much use for your experience."

This seemed to delight her. A small rational part of him- one that was aware that he probably wouldn't have even considered doing this for anyone else, never mind doing it so eagerly- rather wished she'd stop beaming at him; it was making him feel rather guilty. It was too late now, though, to take back his decision on moral grounds: it was said and done.

Instead he simply shook her hand and spoke the truth.

"I can't wait for you to start, Mrs Crawley."

…**...**

He found in her a conscientious worker, a very capable nurse, and- on occasions- a mind-reader. Part of him almost resented not being able to amend for his selfishness in allowing her to volunteer at the hospital by dismissing her as incompetent, and being able to forget about her. But for the most part, she was nothing short of a Godsend, and on the afternoons when he had to go without her assistance he was left wondering how on earth he had coped at all before she arrived. He waited, day by day for something to arise to which she did not know the answer, some problem- medical or logistical- that she could not solve. But it turned out to be in vain. On the one occasion that she almost got him into trouble with Lady Violet, she also got him out of it, with distinction. Her competence verged on unnerving.

As well as this, he found her a pleasant presence to have around the hospital. Though at first he found that she chattered rather a lot, by the time he had got used to this, he found it endearing. She smiled a lot too, and sang under her breath when she thought no one was listening. She wore pretty clothes under her nurse's apron, that she insisted were scruffy. Within a few weeks of her company, he would have had to confess himself quite enchanted by her. The only fault that he could find in her presence in the hospital was not one of her own; he found it difficult not to be distracted by her.

And so it arose again that he found himself feeling guilty for favouring her, knowing that his motivations were mostly selfish, or at least self-centred. He doubted that he would have agreed in a heartbeat to her becoming the Chairman of the Board of Hospital Directors if he hadn't been so in love with her.

**Please review if you have the time, or want any more of this. I'm on holiday, fanfic is a viable commodity for the next three weeks!**


	2. Chapter 2

Of course it had been a mistake, it had all been a terrible mistake. She should never have accepted the position of Chairman of the Board. Not when she had caught sight of how he looked at her. Not when she was more than aware, if she was honest, that she returned those glances, albeit- she hoped, anyway- more subtly. The almost tangible tension of the ceremony- the furtive, glowing looks, that handshake that nearly electrocuted her- could have been avoided altogether by exercising a little common sense. Only there was no reasonable mechanism for her to do so, as she herself had told her son not long ago. She didn't imagine it would make the best impression to these new relatives of hers: "I'm sorry, Cousin Robert, I simply cannot accept your more than generous offer. Yes, I agree, I _am _most suited to the post, and it _will _put your tyrant of a mother in her place, if only temporarily. But, you see, I can't accept your offer because I'm afraid of Dr Clarkson. No, I don't think he's a violent man, quite the contrary. You see, I'm not quite sure whether or not he's in love with me, or I with him, and I'm rather worried that I might say or do something foolish, like throw myself at him with passionate abandon over the boardroom table or...-"

_Isobel_, she told herself, _Now you're being ridiculous, you have not even acknowledged the possibility of passionate abandon for many years_.

_Or am I? Is it I or this whole affair that is ridiculous? Or both? _

_Either way, I doubt the hospital has its own boardroom. _

She sighed and took a drink of tea. Whatever the fact of the matter was, there was one part of it that was clear and incontrovertible. It was too late to do anything about it. It was official now: Chairman of the Board she was, and she was just going to have to live with it.

It was rather unsociable of her, that at a tea party effectively being thrown for her, she was sitting here engaging in vigorous conversation entirely inside her own head. She turned to the people beside her, and decided to take notice of who they were. Fortunately, it did not seem that people were finding her silence rude- across from her Lady Violet was maintaining equal silence- and Cora and the three girls were engaged in enthusiastic discussion- she hesitated to say conflict- over Sybil and whether or not she was to be allowed a new frock. Apparently, it was in fact Mary's turn next. But Edith had got a rough deal the last time; she'd only got a blouse rather than a whole outfit. As much as this company would keep her out of trouble, she did not really fancy being bored to death either. She rather envied the servants' being able to gallop straight off after the ceremony, but this gathering was supposed to be for her.

She got up, and nobody noticed. Escape!

She still had her coat on, though not her hat, and without any further ado was able to slip out of the open door at the back of the church hall, into the small garden. The air on her face was refreshingly cool, and she smiled unrestrainedly for the first time that day.

…**...**

He hoped she didn't catch him watching her. He rather suspected that she had done before, as recently as today,- not that she'd said anything to him about it-; but this time he particularly hoped she didn't because at the moment he was particularly taken aback. Heavens, she was beautiful. Standing there for a moment in the fresh air, how he envied her the chance to escape. Her hair kept pinned neatly back, looking around herself, watching the garden and squinting a little in the bright light. Perhaps he rather regretted his motivations for nominating her to be Chairman of the Board, but now that she was here, he thought his flawed scruples might just have been well worth it.

So very badly, he wanted to go and talk to her, make her smile. Take her hand. But he was kept inside by Lord Grantham, dully droning on about medical matters he only half understood, and if he took her by the hand some eagle-eyed lady was bound to notice. He wanted to make her laugh after this day of serious- not to mention dull- earnestness and ceremony. She had a wonderful laugh, he had discovered. He wanted to court her, though that idea was probably laughed off as old-fashioned by now. And, come to that, they themselves might well be called too old fashioned for courting. He would settle for being her lover, then, if that was all he was good for. If she would have him.

**Please review if you have the time.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Well, this is strangely addictive to write. It must be all the wooing. And, note the T, if you note that sort of thing. **

"This is Dr Clarkson's office."

"Yes, Martha, I think I know that by now. I've already gone barging in there more times than's good for me."

"Oh, yes of course. Sorry, Ma'am."

Isobel smiled to herself at the young nurse's willingness to appear agreeable, that she was willing to effectively insult her in order to seem polite. The poor girl was obviously nervous at having been entrusted with such a task. For herself, Isobel felt really rather guilty at causing her such needless distress; giving her a tour of the hospital was wholly unnecessary, her appointment as Chairman of the Board had not diminished her capacity to remember the layout of buildings. But the doctor had insisted apparently, and now here she was being led down the little corridor of offices separate from the ward.

"This is the on-call room," Martha told her, indicating to the door across the corridor from Dr Clarkson's office.

Now that was something Isobel hadn't known about.

"I'm surprised you've one of those," Isobel confessed, "I'm rather impressed. I didn't think anyone who works here would live any more than half a mile away."

"We don't," Martha replied, "It hardly gets used, Ma'am. Only when there are lots of people in, or one of them's in a particularly bad way, Dr Clarkson'll sleep in there."

Isobel was not given the chance to say anything else before Martha lead her swiftly down to the next door, the one beside Dr Clarkson's. It was true, she did not know what was in there either. A plaque seemed to have appeared on the door since the last time she'd been along here. She put on her spectacles.

"Chairman of the-..." she read aloud, "Chairman of the Board of Hospital Directors? But that's me, isn't it?"

Martha smiled at her.

"Yes, Ma'am, it is. See, that's your name on the next line."

So it was. Mrs I. Crawley.

"I didn't know this job entitled me to an office," she explained, following Martha through the door, still surprised, "I should have taken it more quickly if I had! Oh, Martha!" she was taken aback by the appearance of the room, "It's lovely."

And it was. The room was small and most of the back wall was taken up by big French windows which led straight out into the little walled hospital garden. The neat little desk in the centre of the room faced towards them with a sturdy looking chair and a generous red cushion. Along one wall ran a long shelf, decked with medical and- strangely- gardening volumes, opposite the sideboard on the other side of the room, on which stood a large vase of apparently wild flowers. A meek little armchair, speckled with purple flowers, sat by the bookshelf with a large lamp.

"Oh, I shan't ever be able to keep it this tidy," she remarked merrily, crossing to inspect the flowers.

It all appeared pristinely new, and if it was not, it had been repaired to almost as good a quality. The room might well have been cut out for her. There was little question of it having been like this for the last person in her position.

"Did the doctor arrange for this?" she asked carefully, trying not to look to eager to hear the reply.

"Yes, Ma'am, almost all of it. But I picked the flowers from the garden this morning."

…**...**

"And what, exactly, do you mean by giving her her own office?"

_Good Lord protect us, _he thought, _How on earth did the old bat come to find out about that? _

How she had found out though, he realised, was not really his problem. With the Dowager Countess sitting across from him in his office- though somehow at the moment it felt more as if it were _her _office- plainly glaring at him, his problem was how on earth he was going to explain this away without reference to his actual motivations, which would certainly be deemed unsuitable.

"Well, I... The Chairman of the Board ought to have to have such a facility, I think, if they should want it," he began uneasily, "And it seems that Mrs Crawley found the arrangement made most suitable."

"I'm sure she did. I am president of this hospital, would I be offered the facility, should I find I needed it?" 

"Mrs Crawley also does a lot of practical work at the hospital," he cut in quickly, the thought of Lady Violet moving into the corridor with them both a thought that it did not do to dwell on,"She practically takes on the role of Ward Sister when she's here."

"And I'd wager that your Ward Sister, your rightful one, that is, really appreciates that."

As a matter of fact the Ward Sister hadn't said anything to him, but then again he hadn't really asked her either. And he imagined that at this very moment, that was written across his face for Lady Violet to read. Yes, if her expression was anything to go by, that was exactly what she was seeing.

"Dr Clarkson," If he could admire nothing else about her, he admired her ability to speak plainly. Even if what she said was not necessarily what he wanted to hear. "I don't pretend to understand your apparent preference for Isobel Crawley, and I suppose you realise that it is certainly not one that I share. But I will give you warning that if it were to be noticed by anyone other than me, it could cause trouble for you. A man making allowances for his mistress is never proper, but especially not a medical man."

There were several points of that that he would like to contest. Prioritising would certainly be necessary. First, defend Mrs Crawley's honour.

"My mistress?" he repeated, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. By God, he wished it were true, but that was neither here nor there, "I hope, your Ladyship, that I misunderstand your meaning."

She was gazing at him with that abhorrently feigned innocence he had seen her wear before. She evidently hadn't expected him to attempt to defend himself.

"You mean, yourself and Mrs Crawley are not..."

"No." 

"Well, Dr Clarkson, I must say, I do apologise, I didn't mean for a moment to assume that-..." 

"Forgive me, m'Lady, but I rather think you did."

Fortunately, he too could be rather plain-spoken when it was required. He had the pleasure of watching her bristle a little at that.

"Well, I think it's rather time I was getting back. Simmons will be worried. I can see myself out."

He hadn't even bothered to rise, and he did not lift his head from the desk as he said:

"Good afternoon, your Ladyship."

…**...**

"Yes, I think my office is just about to my liking," she told him lightly, looking around from her desk to where he stood before her. His face fell just a little, and so she smiled warmly at him, "It's lovely. Thank you."

He seemed much more content at that. She put down her pen and got up, she was just about done here anyway.

"Matthew tells me he saw Cousin Violet leaving here this afternoon," she told him, resting her hands and her back against her desk chair, "I was rather worried that she was here to badger you, or was she just president-ing along in her usual merry way?"

He laughed ruefully.

"I'm afraid it was more of the former than the latter."

"Well, I can't honestly tell you that I'm surprised. It wasn't about me, was it?"

She was surprised when his face seemed to fall again, and more gravely this time.

"What's the matter?" she asked, "I'm not getting you into that much trouble, am I?"

When he remained serious and silent there suddenly seemed a lot less to joke about.

"What has she said?" she asked caught between a need for caution and an impulse to panic.

It took him a few moment to answer, and when he did it was in rather a low voice.

"Lady Violet is under the impression that... I have something of a preference. Quite a... substantial, and amorous one. For you. And that my treatment of you reflects that preference."

"What?"

He took her incredulity for incomprehension.

"She thinks we're lovers," he explained quite sharply.

"Ah."

Nothing like a bit of bluntness. There was little else she could say to that. Hadn't she spent the past five weeks since she'd known him contemplating that very thing to a greater or lesser extent? Well, hang what Lady Violet thought of them!

"Mrs Crawley," the doctor could not bring himself to look at her, and it caused an undeniable tightening in her chest, "If, in the light of this, you do not feel able to go on working with me, I will more than understand. I wouldn't for a moment want you to think that by doing so you were damaging your reputation."

"I don't think that," she told him truthfully, "I don't think that at all."

Little by little, she felt her heart bending. She wished she could just say it to him. He still wasn't watching her, he couldn't see it written all over her face.

"Well," he said, "I'm glad of that. I ought to leave you to-..."

"No. Don't go." Well, she had said _something_ at any rate.

It had taken him aback, and he turned back towards her, watching her now. She felt herself flush.

"Please," she repeated, fully aware that now he could see ever little movement of her expression, it made her feel oddly exposed, almost ready to cry as she said something weighing on her very heavily, "I don't want you to go."

"Mrs Crawley-..."

She kissed him suddenly, closing the few feet between them in a second, lifting her hands to his face, pulling him towards her. She felt his hands immediately on her waist, at first she thought it was only to steady her, but then they stayed there. At first it was only relief, blessed relief to break to tension that had being weighing ever more heavily between them. And then she allowed herself to really feel it.

It took the wood in the small of her back to notice that he had backed her up against her new desk. It was fairly small, but she supposed it could take her weight, and- in a moment's snap decision- hopped up to sit there, allowing him to nudge tentatively between her knees. All the while he was kissing her.

It did take her quite some nerve to work the hem of his shirt out of his trousers, there was no denying that. Not that he seemed to have any objections, buried in her collarbone. In fact, he seemed to have the same idea, her blouse was open considerably lower than it had been before. That probably how he was moving his tongue slowly along the top of her corset, the curves of her breasts-...

A knock at the door. She did not think she saw anyone jump back wards as quickly as the doctor did then, but she could not take offence from that; she didn't think she'd ever jumped off a table quite as quickly. The most disconcerting part was that she thought they had been the only two left in the hospital.

When Martha stuck her head round the door it was quite a relief. If anyone could be persuaded to ignore an untucked shirt and a dangerously scantily buttoned blouse, it was Martha.

"Begging your pardon, Dr Clarkson, but there's been an accident," she told them both.

"What kind of an accident?" he asked, "How serious?"

"Young man's been hit by one of the cars going up for dinner at the big house. People are saying it's fairly bad. A lot of blood."

"God in heaven... I'll be out in a moment," he told her.

"He's not here yet. Will be in five minutes."

"Thank you, Martha."

As the nurse shut the door behind her, they exchanged a look: disbelief, complaint, apology and unbelievable longing all in one. He lent forwards for a moment, resting his hands on the table either side of her hips, breathing deeply. She covered one of his hands with hers and ran her thumb over it.

"You have to go."

"God, I'm sorry, Isobel."

"Shh, it's alright," she whispered, revelling at the sound of him murmuring her Christian name, lifting her hand to brush fondly against his cheek.

He lent further forward, resting his head on her shoulder, breathing deeply. Closing her eyes, and trying to ignore the sound of his breath in her ear, she whispered- with great effort- the words she knew she had to.

"Go on, you have to go."

**Please review if you have the time. **


	4. Chapter 4

**A strong T- it gets out of being an M on a technicality.**

**To satisfy cookie-moi's liking for Clarkson/Isobel tension. **

She might not faint at the sight of blood, but heavens, that didn't mean that she liked it. Especially not like this; grazes, moderate lacerations she could cope with, but not like this, enough to seemingly saturate the sterilised sheet on the operating table. Not drying crisply into the fair sandy hair of a young man that could have so easily been her son. It had been hopeless, really.

As soon as they had brought him in she had been able to see that there was very little they could do for him, he had already lost too much blood. She suspected very much from the look on Richard's face that he realised as much as well. But- perhaps recklessly-, transfixed by the poor boy's eerie resemblance to Matthew, she had found herself moving forward, ready to ignore the fact that he almost certainly wouldn't make it through. She could not be passive in this matter, and a second later she felt Richard beside her, ready to help her. And now he was still standing beside her, with blood all over his hands.

There was almost perfect silence in the room for a good few moments. Then;

"I think we'd better call it a day. There's nothing more we can do for the poor soul," his voice sounded weary, oh so weary, "Time of death," he consulted his pocket watch, "9:17."

In spite of everything, Isobel found she was truly surprised that it was that early. She had expected it to be well on the way to midnight. Behind her, she heard a hitched sob, and turned to see poor Martha standing a few steps back from the table, looking truly horrified.

"Oh, Martha," she was about to wrap her arms around the girl and console her when she realised that her own hands were also covered in blood. She crossed to the basin of water in the corner and doused her hands in it with some carbolic soap, removing her bloodstained apron. "There, there, Martha dear," she placed her hands cautiously around the young nurse's shoulders and hugged her gently, "Haven't you ever seen... before?"

The girl shook her head in distress, and Isobel simply held her there. Looking past the girl's shaking shoulders, she could see Richard, leaning heavily on the edge of the table.

"Dr Clarkson," she said softly.

Thankfully, the sound of her voice seemed to bring him out of whatever he had been in. Slowly, he stood up straight and made his way over to the basin to wash his own hands. Once he had finished scrubbing them, he looked over towards Isobel and Martha.

"Look after," he told Isobel quietly, "See she gets home safely. There are things I'll have to fill in, forms and so on. And I suppose I'll have to notify the police. They'll make sure his relatives know."

As Isobel led Martha away, she felt the suspended wave of grief she had been expecting wash over her at last.

…**...**

When at last he put the lid on his pen and put it down on his desk, Richard felt thoroughly and utterly exhausted. His face rested momentarily in the palm of his hand and he frowned deeply before making the seeming tremendous effort to stand up. There was little question of his going home this evening; he would only just settle down to sleep- if he did at all- when it would be time to get up again. Half asleep, he shut the door of his office and made his way across the corridor to the on-call room.

And the sight that met him rendered him fully awake in an instant. Isobel Crawley, sitting in the lone armchair in her nightdress and dressing gown, her hair loosely braided and then wound into a knot at the back of her head, apparently waiting for him. She looked up at the sound of the door closing and smiled at him softly, tiredly.

He realised that he was staring at her open-mouthed; wondering which question to ask her first.

"I knew you wouldn't go home," she explained, "I couldn't let you spend tonight alone. Not here of all places."

How had she come to be such an angel?- he wondered. But he couldn't allow her to... Not for him.

"Isobel, I-..."

Obviously sensing his retreat, she stood up hurriedly, walking closer to him quickly, covering his slightly outstretched hands with her own.

"Don't say anything that you don't really mean, Richard, please," she implored of him, "If you were being serious before, then you need me here. And if you weren't, then you owe it to me to be here for me."

He could not say anything, simply bowing his head a little. There was something very humbling in seeing her like this: raw compassion.

"Richard," she lent forward a little, almost whispering it in his ear, "You can lavish me with all the desks in Christendom, and kiss me atop half of them, but it won't mean a jot to me if you don't allow me to care for you in return. I've known you for barely two months, and I love you thoroughly."

He allowed these words to sink into him, slowly, slowly, and then, as soon as he was sure he had heard them correctly, gently let go of her hands to wrap his arms around her back and hold her to him, comforted by her very presence, by her soft, warm body. They remained like that for a few long moments before she whispered:

"I want you to forget," she told him, "I want you to forget all of the horrible things you've seen this evening. I want to be able to forget them myself," There was a pause for a moment. "Come on, I think it's time were in bed."

He looked fleetingly from the bed in the corner of the room to her. To her untying her dressing gown and getting into the bed, leaving the sheets turned over, waiting for him. It was a single bed, but wide considering that, and neither of them was very large. Still, he was uneasy.

"Isobel," he began hesitantly, "I'm not sure that-..."

"Richard," she told him plainly, "I'm not a little girl. I know what I'm doing."

Such was the conviction in her tone, that- for long enough for him to find himself in the bed beside her- it completely silenced his doubts. Even if they did revive themselves a little once he was there, that did not quell the urge in him to reach out and take her into his arms. Or to kiss her forehead. And she had been absolutely right, this was perfect comfort to him.

"Isobel," he began quietly, "I ought to tell you something." He knew she was listening from the kind of silence she offered him, "I love you. And I'm not just saying it to keep you in bed with me, I've loved you for a very long time." 

He felt her laugh softly against his chest.

"Oh, Richard," she placed a passionate kiss against his lips. "Thank you."

Was this it?- he wondered, Was this the night when he would finally make love to that beautiful, unobtainable girl who had drifted in and out of his fantasies for the past thirty years? The girl who had grown into the most wonderful woman he had ever known.

He saw her smile at him, very slightly and tiredly, but she was was smiling for him nonetheless. It was only a question of whether she would kiss him or whether he would get there first. Finding their way back into each other's arms, they lay entwined in one another, until he felt his excitement growing and he shifted, worrying that it would alarm her. She, however, only shifted closer towards him.

This was what she had meant, buried in her collarbone, kissing her thoroughly through her nightdress, he found he was able to forget almost everything else in the world. The more he went on, the less he thought, the less he remembered. Caught up as he was in the hurried blissfulness of it all, he massaged her breasts through her nightgown, proceeding down further, raising her nightdress slowly up to her knees- which he was resting between-, halfway up her thighs. It was the sorest temptation in the world, as she lay flushed, wanton almost, beneath him not to hastily release himself from his trousers and bury himself inside her, truly make her his mistress.

He did not deserve her, beautiful, beautiful as she was. She deserved better, than him. Better than any of this.

"Isobel. Isobel, I can't do this."

Had he really just been about to make love to her here, like this, in this narrow hospital bed? To satisfy himself, to chase away the memories of a harrowing night with a quick release. He rolled away from her, her nightdress still lying halfway up her thighs.

"I'm so sorry, Isobel. You deserve so much better than this."

"Perhaps I don't want any better," her voice was quiet but determined.

He allowed himself to look into her face. She looked confused, upset, nearly desperate. With a hint of anger.

"I can't," he repeated, "Twenty years ago perhaps I would have done, but not to you."

"Richard-..."

He got out of bed, hastily buttoning his shirt again.

"I can sleep in my office. It's not too long until morning-..."

"Richard! I love you," she face was set, the anger decidedly beginning to show now, her voice thick with emotion, "And I would have gladly given myself to you entirely. I thought you wanted me?"

"Oh, God, Isobel, I do, believe me! But not like this, not the first time, anyway. Do you understand?"

She was silent for a moment.

"I understand. That doesn't make any easier, though."

As he let himself out and back into his own office, he doubted very much if he would get any sleep at all before dawn.

**Please review if you have the time.**


	5. Chapter 5

**It's Christmas Eve, and I'm giving you angst; I will try and sort myself out by tomorrow. If I find time between seeing lots of relatives tomorrow, perhaps there will be something cheerier on Christmas Day!**

He had been catastrophically stupid, he realised too late, not to take his spare set of clothes from the wardrobe in the on-call room as he left. Having left her the way he had done the previous night, the last thing he wanted to do was appear to intrude upon her in the morning. However, it was either risk that, or go around for a whole day in the clothes he had worn as he slipped between the sheets with her, and which were rather crumpled for it.

It wasn't light yet, he had not been to sleep at all for any great length of time so he was able to choose his moment well. He tapped gently on the door in case she had decided to try and slip away early without being noticed. She was asleep, though; he saw her form still lying curled over in the bed from the greyish hue of window, rain pouring down against it outside. Determined not to linger, he crossed quickly to the chest of drawers in the corner, digging out the articles of clothing that he needed as soon as he found them. It was only when he turned back around to leave that he really caught a good look of her, and all intention not to linger went flying out of his head.

She was oddly, eerily, disorganised-ly beautiful lying there. Her hair, in its loose knot, splayed out a little in the strands that had escaped, gleaming in the rain-distorted moonlight. Lying half-curled into a ball, her wrist lay beside her face, almost touching her nose. It made her look very young. Not young; small. The neck of her nightdress had become a little displaced, one side pressing right against her neck, the other side exposing the skin almost all the way to her shoulder. The blanket too was at an odd angle, as if she had shifted a great deal in her sleep, or as if she had been too warm while she was still awake and she had only drawn it halfway across. It did not cover one of her knees, and her leg protruded, the hem of her nightdress cutting a clear white line halfway up her calf.

He took a step closer to her; he did not think there was a very great danger of him waking her up, he recognised her sleep as a deep, exhausted one. That was certainly understandable, given... everything. To his dismay, he also noticed and odd smoothness to her cheeks and a redness around her eyes. It was rather too much for him to bear: the thought of her lying here alone, after he had gone, crying. He suddenly found himself wishing that he had not left her alone. He did not regret telling her that they could not make love there and then, but now he wondered if it might not have been kinder of him to stay with her after that.

Almost certain that she would not wake up, he perched lightly on the edge of the bed, level with her hips, stroking his hand gently over her cheeks. She stirred a little, and for one alarming moment he thought that he had been wrong and that she would wake up, and e very angry with him, but she settled back down after a moment. He continued to trace over one of the light creases still washed out with her tears with his thumb.

_Isobel. Oh, Isobel._

…**...**

Thankfully, she was able to get out in the morning without being noticed by anyone. She splodged down the rainy main street, running the last few steps up to Crawley House and shut the door tightly behind her. She had forgotten it was Saturday, and that as it was raining it was likely that Matthew would at home all day. Simply flinging her coat and hat on the coat-stand before Molesley could get there, she found there was nothing she could do to avoid the inevitable questions but to make a run for it up the stairs. She shut herself in the bathroom and started to run a bath, something she hadn't done since they had come here. It was oddly comforting to potter round the bathroom doing things for herself, not really stopping until she sank down into the heat of the bath.

The loose strands of hair at the back of her head fell into the edge of the water so that they were wet and stuck to her shoulders when she sat up. Finally, she settled herself to lie against the back of the tub, and allowed her mind to wander. Where it wandered to at its first given chance was rather predictable; to a bed in the on-call room of Downton Hospital. And how she had acted there. Wantonly, would be one, more moderate, word for it. She felt some of the heat of the water creep into her cheeks. She raised her wet hand and rubbed it roughly across her eyes. She had acted so very wantonly, with a man who was not her husband. Her only excuse, if it was one at all, was that she had been doing what she had thought he needed her to do.

In hindsight of course, she realised that she had been doing it every bit as much for herself as for him. There was no denying that she had wanted to. This did not really shock her. What did was the lack of hesitation with which she had gone about it. This morning she felt like an old woman, but last night she had had no thoughts of her imperfect skin or deteriorating figure. Perhaps that was because he hadn't got as far as taking her nightdress off. Who knew? Her hand drifted unwittingly to her hip. Wide. Good God, what had she been thinking of?

She lay there quite still for a few more moments and concluded that the answer to that was quite simple. _Him. _

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	6. Chapter 6

**With reference to what happens at the end of the chapter, cookie-moi and Batwings made me do it! Now I'm going to call it a nearly-M. **

For the rest of the day she did not leave the house; too weary and too unwilling at the prospect of facing the world- though rationally she knew it was almost impossible that anyone could have guessed at her behaviour- to entertain the notion. She lay for most of the time in bed, trying in vain to rid herself of her seeming innate exhaustion; torn between the feeling that her double bed was far too wide for one, and vivid dreams full of screeching tires and blood soaking through hospital sheets. The next day she did leave the house, though she did not pay anyone any calls, and avoided the hospital studiously.

By the third day, though, she had worked up the courage. Still, she hurried in and quickly veered off towards the corridor and followed it round to her office, avoiding the ward altogether. Although she did not encounter anyone else, she deliberately made a point of averting her eyes from the on-call room door. She still had not worked out what in heaven she was going to say to him. The possibility that he might on reflection, after leaving her that night, have been entirely disgusted by her behaviour and want to break off their... relationship himself was horrible to her, but it was not one that she felt she could shy away from.

She let herself into her office quickly, shutting the door behind herself as soon as she was inside, and made her way to her desk.

Lying across it was a bunch of the same flowers that had been in the vase when she arrived: a little less well arranged- the mixture was more uneven and some of the stems of the thicker flowers looked roughly cut, as if done by someone who wasn't used to dealing with flowers- but she was strangely inclined to prefer them for these forgiveable flaws. She could not repress her smile. There was a little envelope beside them. To her surprise, when she reached to open it, she found that her fingers were trembling slightly.

_Dear Isobel,_

_When you get this, I should be grateful if you would come and see me, if you would like. Come and have your dinner at my house one evening. Let me make it up to you. _

_Your Richard._

Brief as this correspondence was, she read it twice. Then she folded the paper, put it back in its envelope and tucked it into the inside pocket of her coat.

…**...**

She put on her pale blue dress, her pearls, and arranged her hair in a lower knot than usual. Then she looked into the mirror, decided she looked like a right old tart trying to look not so old, took everything off, and opted for her much safer purple dress. She always felt safer with purple. She arranged her hair in her usual fashion and did away with the pearls. She made sure the front of her hair was securely fixed: for some reason it had a habit of curling abominably when she exerted herself.

Then she stopped and berated herself for thinking that she would be exerting herself at all. She had been invited very civilly to have her supper, and nothing else. After her antics the last time they had been in a room alone for more than ten minutes, though, she doubted he thought she needed any encouragement. She blushed furiously.

She dabbed some lavender oil on her wrists and behind her ears, then glanced at the clock and realised she was five minutes late. She grabbed her gloves and shawl from her dressing table and made it down the stairs and out of the front door as fast as she could.

…**...**

"You are very quiet, this evening, Isobel. If you don't mind my saying. Have I made an awful hash of the food? I knew it was rather ambitious to invite you around for dinner."

She looked up at him and gave him a small smile.

"The food's fine, Richard, I'm jut rather full. Actually, I'm rather impressed. Do you always cook for yourself?"

"Generally," he told her, "The maid servant comes around to tidy and she is strictly supposed to cook as well, but I'm always at the hospital when she's here so she never bothers. But you're still quiet," he added rather sheepishly, looking concerned and slightly rueful, "I've upset you, haven't I?"

She gave him a very earnest look.

"No, Richard, not you. I've upset myself if anything."

This was going to be the time for honesty, apparently. Neither of them were particularly good at keeping their opinions under wraps, and she supposed that well might apply to feelings as well. Well, she supposed, it was as good a time as any to be honest with one another. She heard herself take a deep breath to begin to confess her own feelings- hoping that they would sort themselves out as she articulated them- when he spoke.

"I expect that I'm not wrong in thinking that what happened that night might have something to do with it. Your being upset, that is."

She looked at him gratefully for starting her off.

"You're not, no." 

Again, she was about to go on, but he stopped her.

"Oh, Isobel, I'm sorry. I'm so wretchedly sorry."

"What for?"

She had expected him to be sorry, certainly, but in this case which part he was sorry for was all-important to her. Was he sorry that he had stopped it, or sorry that it had started at all?

"I am sorry I left you in a miserable, lonely little bed, when I should have stayed with you at the very least. I am truly sorry."

She did not say anything for a moment, taking it in.

"Surely you don't deny that that upset you?"

"It did a little," she conceded, "But I understand. Like I said then, I understand."

She understood everything that she knew. It was what she didn't know for certain that was bothering her.

"Richard," she spoke very slowly and deliberately, willing herself not to say the wrong thing as she proceeded to the real crux of the matter, "If I ask you this one question do you promise that you'll answer me absolutely honestly? Because I need to know this. Why did you stop me- us? Was it really because you're so much of a gentleman? Or because I didn't live up to your expectations?"

She waited for a moment for him to speak. But he was gazing at her, dumb-founded. In the end, she had to break the silence.

"What?" she asked, trying to work out which part of what she had said had been ridiculous enough to merit this response.

Then, he leant quickly around the corner of the table where they were sitting and kissed her very thoroughly indeed. When they broke apart she was quite considerably breathless, and so was he by the quality of his voice.

"No, Isobel," he spoke with the tone of someone trying to maintain a level voice, "You did not disappoint me in the slightest. I don't think you could."

She looked down rather shyly into her lap where her fingers were playing nervously with her napkin.

"I wouldn't be too sure about that," she warned him.

Looking down, it took her by surprise when- as if to silence her- he leant forward and kissed her again.

"Why did you stop us, then?" she asked, hearing her voice sound playful, coy almost, "Because it obviously wasn't because you're such a gentleman, if this is anything to go by."

Instead of looking offended by this remark, he barked with laughter.

"Madness, I suppose," he admitted.

She laughed a little- noticing how his hand, resting on the table, had found its way to lie over hers- fitting the strands of thought together in her head.

"So," she concluded, hesitantly, still cautious of crossing these lines, "You do... want me, then?"

His the movements of his face in reaction to the question spoke the answer for him. She tried not to look too pleased, and probably failed spectacularly.

"Right, then."

…**...**

Of course, it transpired that she did not go home. Matthew would understand, she persuaded herself. The only thing was that, after these last few nights of anxiety and poor sleep, she was truly exhausted. Richard, she suspected, was taking his time in the bathroom to allow her enough time to get ready for bed in his room. When he walked in, he found her sitting in the armchair near his bed, barely suppressing an enormous yawn. She like the stripes on his pyjamas and smiled benignly up at him, unaware that that made her look even more ready to drop straight off to sleep.

He smiled kindly down at her.

"You need to sleep," he informed her, "No- I refuse to believe any excuses you give me. You're almost asleep sitting there, any fool could see that."

He walked over to the bed and got into his usual side, turning over the covers as she had done for him the other night.

"Come here, and let me hold you."

Settled between Richard's arms- and, she had to admit, his legs too- she had the best night's sleep she'd had all week.

…**...**

When he awoke in the morning he was a little more than disconcerted to find that she was gone from the bed. He hoped that she was naturally an early riser- and hadn't just waited for him to fall asleep before legging it back to Crawley House- but he was relieved to see most of her clothes still folded neatly in the armchair.

Having little interest in remaining in the bed alone, he got up and made his way quite sleepily across the corridor to the bathroom, thinking he would certainly have to smarten himself up a little bit before she saw him. Unfortunately he did not quite the chance.

When he entered the bathroom, he was greeted by the most... astonishing sight he could recall having seen in his entire life. Isobel Crawley in his bathtub.

…**...**

The only way he was going to get out of this without looking like a colossal idiot was to keep his eyes fixed firmly on her face.

They stayed there looking at each other for a long time. She spoke first.

"The lock on your bathroom door doesn't work."

Nod in reply. No! Don't do that, you'll take your eyes off her face! Oh, Lord have mercy, that shift didn't do justice to that beautiful figure. _Eyes on her face, Richard. _

"I'm sorry, I should have warned you."

"It's alright. I tried to leave you a note on the door, but I couldn't get it to stay there."

"Oh."

She had probably assumed that he knew his door was broken- which he had- and that he'd have had the astuteness to knock, knowing that he had a guest- which he hadn't. The water was perfectly clear, she hadn't added any bath salt. His trousers suddenly felt unconscionably tight.

"Could you pass me the towel, please?"

"Certainly."

He tried to hold the towel out for her to step into- which he succeeded in doing. But he tried to leave go of it quickly enough to avoid seeming to throw his arms around her with it. As a result, he ended up dropping one side, fully exposing one of her breasts, and throwing the other around her even more vehemently in order to avoid the same thing happening. They were then standing pressed together, her with her feet in the bath with an almost entirely bare bosom.

Then he felt her arms wrap around his shoulders, holding him closer still. The towel slipped just a little further. It took him a moment to process entirely what was happening. Then, as soon as it hit him, he wrapped his arms around her waist and took her weight entirely. She gasped a little in surprise as she was carried out of the bathroom, back into the bedroom and laid down in the centre of the unmade bed.

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	7. Chapter 7

**Definite M.**

Now that they were finally here, there was very little sense of hesitation in either of their thoughts or actions. As they kissed, he pressed the towel gently into her skin, drying her off. Once he had finished her front, he wrapped his arms around hers, his hands on the back of her shoulders, lifting her to sit up so that he could do the same to her back, and dab at her hair. She must have washed her hair first, because it was almost dry, and soft under his hands. He moved to sit behind her properly so that she sat between his legs, as he nuzzled into her hair and the side of her cheek. She smelled of his soap that she had obviously used to wash herself. He wrapped his arms around her to hold her, pressing her back into his chest- their skin making contact where she had undone the buttons of his pyjama shirt. His hands moved to cup her bare breasts, and he heard her moan softly. He rested his chin on her shoulder, moving his hands down towards her thighs, nudging them apart and rubbing the towel slowly down the inside of her legs. He felt her back arch against him, and he let his hand rest against her hip to hold her still.

"Will you let me do something for you?" he whispered in her ear.

She did not speak, but he felt her nod haltingly beside his face. Her breath was becoming more and more uneven.

He shifted so that he was no longer sitting behind her, helping her to move backwards and sit on the pillows, resting back against the headboard. Moving to kneel before her, he held her hand in his, before leaning forwards, nudging to sit between her legs, to kiss her. When his mouth left hers it simply did not stop until he had travelled down to her navel. He felt her fingers winding into the back of his hair, holding him there. He was not sure if she was doing it to keep him closer to her or to prevent him going any further.

Slowly, he lifted his head to look at her. He found her pupils darkened with pleasure, a flush creeping up through her neck from her chest.

"Will you let me?" he asked quietly, looking at her very clearly. His had caressed her hip in a placatory motion.

"You don't have to," she whispered.

"I want to."

"You should know," he sensed a hint of wryness even amidst her excitement, "I was never very good at... at that."

Gently, he brushed his hand against her face, moving a soft lock of hair to behind her ear, taking in her and her beauty.

"You're not the one that has to be very good at it."

And with that his lips joined his hand at her hip, slipping down gently to the inside of her thigh before he kissed her centre. He felt her hips buck a little off the pillows, and heard her moan loudly.

"Shh," he told her, pressing the heel of his hand gently into her groin, letting his fingers lie between her folds and letting them slide back and forward, feeling how wet she was, "It's alright."

He returned his lips to her, gently sucking and letting his tongue trace where his fingers had been a moment before.

"Richard," her voice was uneven, only just in control, "Richard, I don't think I can-..."

Just then, she lost the ability to articulate herself and her words became a low cry as she came, slumping and trembling against him as he moved to hold her in his arms and lower her down to lie on the bed until she had recovered.

…**...**

They lay like that for a long time; her still trembling a little and trying to recover some of her senses, while he gently stroked her hair and her back. When she thought she could trust her voice, she spoke.

"Thank you, Richard."

He kissed her forehead.

"For you, my love."

She sighed contentedly against his neck, tightening her arms around him. She was not sure how on earth she had managed to find herself such a wonderful man as this, but she certainly wasn't going to let him go any time soon. At this moment in time, she did not care if she was acting wantonly, because in to her no one else existed but them, and there was no none to judge her wantonness. It didn't matter; nothing mattered but them. She found his lips and kissed them passionately.

She felt his arms adjust to hold her close to him, and they simply lay beside each other for a while, bodies aligned, kissing. Then, somehow feeling as if she was taking a tiny chance, she wrapped her legs around his waist. She could feel his excitement pressing against her, and felt the knot of excitement begin to tighten inside herself in response. She had not felt like this in years, she could not remember ever feeling like she did in that moment.

"Richard, make love to me. Please."

She felt him shift a little, and rolled away from him, hoping to speed things up. In fact, she found that she could not wait, and started to help him remove his pyjama trousers. His arousal free, she found herself distracted for a moment for her own need for release, and took him into her hand, enjoying it immensely when he gasped in surprise. Lying there on his back, she allowed herself to tease him for a moment, running her hand lightly along him until her own impatience grew too much and she straddled his hips, drawing him to her and lowering herself onto him in one motion.

They started slowly, drawing every movement out, feeling every inch of each other, until holding back became too much and they found themselves both hurtling over the edge. Collapsing beside each other on the sheets, freshly exhausted, they held each other until they drifted back off to sleep.

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	8. Chapter 8

**I have no idea where I'm going with this: I could end it now or I could turn it into a sort of behind-the-scenes epic, going on through the two series? What do people want? Please tell me!**

**M, by the way. **

Left unattended to after being washed, her hair seemed to have the habit of lying in surprisingly thick waves, falling down her back. He buried his face in it, breathing in the its smell, his nose just touching the skin of her neck. It was wonderful, for the second time that day, not to wake up alone. Then, he felt the softness of it vanish from beside his face. He opened his eyes to find Isobel, lying in front of him, still in his arms, craning her neck around to look at him enquiringly.

"You know, you should see someone about that," she remarked lightly, "Your fixation with my hair."

He laughed, pulling her more firmly into his arms, wrapping one across her hips and letting the other lie across her breasts, pressing her back against his chest.

"When it comes to that, I would have thought you were more worried about my fixation with your body in general."

She laughed softly.

"Well, there is that as well."

He kissed the side of her face contentedly as he felt her hand latch onto his arm, holding it steadily. They lay there quietly for a while, neither wanting to move or feeling the need to speak. Just revelling the feeling of each other's skin and presence.

"You know," she said again after a while in a quiet voice, with that unique air of hers that made him feel as if she was speaking the words as they formed in her mind, no alteration to make them anything other than absolute honesty, "I don't do this all of the time."

He waited for her to elaborate, but when she did not he sensed that perhaps she was waiting for him to help her along a little bit.

"Well, I didn't have you down for the kind who went around regularly seducing unsuspecting medical men," he told her softly, "Successful as you were with me."

He felt her smile a little bit before continuing.

"Good, I'm glad. Because you're the only one. I'm not one of these women who go around jumping into bed with every man they find. And I can't quite explain why you were different, I don't know myself; except to say that I love you." She had said it before, but somehow it felt as if it carried a different weight this time. "It's only you that I'd let you be with me like this."

He sensed a slight discomfort about her, and without thinking about it stroked her hip for a moment to soothe her.

"This is a bit strange for you, isn't it?" he asked gently.

"Yes," she admitted haltingly, "But you wouldn't have thought it the way I went on the other night, silly old tart that I am."

"Stop it," he told her firmly, kissing her again, "I won't have talk like that from you, you're beautiful, Isobel, really beautiful, and I'm sorry if you haven't been told that enough in the past because it's absolutely true."

"Just sometimes it feels as if it was more true in the past than it is now."

He thought back; the memory he had of seeing her fleetingly when she was younger and how it had stayed with him all this while. Yes, she had been outstandingly beautiful then. But it had not gone, he decided, changed perhaps, grown into a wiser more contained, refined beauty, but it was still very much alive and vehement. The vivid memory of what had happened before they went to sleep; her above him, her hips bucking, head thrown back as she tried to repress a cry at the height of her climax seemed to flash behind his eyes.

"Well, you're just going to have to take my word for it that it is," he told her plainly, "I'm not saying you're perfect, just as I very much doubt that you'd say I was, but you're beautiful through and through."

He suddenly realised that perhaps her assurance her being here with him was a special case was an indirect plea for a similar assurance in return.

"It's only you for me as well," he told her in a low voice, "You're not just some..."

"Floozy?"

"Yes, if you like, floozy. I've loved you for a long time."

"Two months?"

"No, much longer."

She laughed softly, a slight note of incredulity, raising herself up onto her elbow to look at him.

"What aren't you telling me, Richard?" 

"I saw you once. At some kind of party in Manchester. We were both quite young, and I didn't dare speak to you because I caught one look at you and knew I didn't stand a chance. Then I heard that you were engaged and I was even more convinced that you wouldn't give me a second look. But I remembered you. I knew it was you as soon as I saw you, I couldn't forget your face. It didn't take much, I was waiting to fall in love with you properly and you happened to make that very easy for me."

He reached out and smoothed the skin of her face, so happy that she was staying here with him like this.

"So now you know."

"Yes. What time is it?"

"Oh, now you know you've got me safely captivated, you can't wait to get away?"

She laughed heartily, scrambling a little to reach the little clock on his beside table.

"No, I want to know how long I've got left to be here with you. Half past ten? Damn! Richard get up! You'll be dreadfully late!"

He smiled at her, not moving.

"It's my half day," he told her, laughing a little at the look of shock on her face.

"Really?" she asked, "How long do you have?"

"Until two o'clock."

She gasped her delight, almost throwing down the clock and rolling joyfully back across the bed to lie back in his arms. He smiled into her hair again as she settled herself back against his chest. He would happily hold her like this for the next three hours and fifty-five minute, then throw on his clothes and run to the hospital if only to spend as much time with her as possible. But judging by the way she was pressing her behind back against him, she clearly had other ideas. He groaned, putting his hand softly on her shoulder to roll her over, but she stopped him with her fingers on his.

"Richard, would you mind very much if we... like this?"

She gently lifted her leg to rest on his, taking hold of his hand back into hers and drawing it back around to her front, to rest on her ribs. He felt her waiting, divinely open for him, but still did not dare move until she asked him to.

"Please," she told him shyly, "I've never before. I've always wondered..."

He stopped her talking, his lips on her neck, one hand moving to cup her breast, the other trailing slowly down to rest over her hip bone to slip between her folds and excite her. She gasped in surprise at these sudden sensations, throwing her head back to allow him better access, her hips arching automatically backwards to grind against his own excitement.

He could not restrain himself for long, the sounds she was making driving him dangerously close to the edge. He was about to thrust forwards and take her, when he found her hand tentatively slip down to join his, covering it, and adjusting his fingers ever so slightly to press firmly against a certain spot. The desperate whimper she gave, the erratic jerk of her hips at that was so much that for a moment that he thought for a second she was going to climax already, but when she did not start to tremble he slipped gently inside of her to find her muscles still gradually tightening. A few short thrusts, and she had cried out aloud and he had followed her over the edge.

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	9. Chapter 9

He was not expecting the tap on the door, and wondered as he made his way to answer it who would possibly be calling at this time. Usually, if there was some urgent business at the hospital, there would be a lot more commotion from the other side of the door, but it was relatively silent. The fleeting thought that he was about to be burgled crossed his mind. He reminded himself not to be ridiculous, and that any serious burglar would surely go for one of the slightly grander looking houses than his own. Nevertheless, he opened the door cautiously.

"Isobel!" he half-exclaimed; relieved, surprised, delighted all at once to see her.

Wrapped up in her big coat, she crossed the threshold quickly as he stepped back and shut the door behind her. He noticed that she had her little carrying case in her hand.

"Matthew's been asked for dinner at the big house," she informed him happily, "It's the first chance I've had to get away unnoticed. You did say you didn't mind, any evening that I was free..."

Swiftly, he kissed her forehead and helped her take her coat off.

"I'm glad to see you as well," he told her, reading between the lines of what she was trying to say to him. He was getting increasingly good at that. "We really need to work out some sort of arrangement. If you're willing, that is."

She laughed as she made her way through into the sitting room.

"Goodness, yes, I'm willing," she replied, "But Richard, you really must stop this waiting to ask me every time you want to as much as hold my hand. Believe it or not, I find it quite terrifying to be in charge absolutely all of the time."

Sitting down on the settee beside her, he tilted his head at her slightly, indicating that, yes, he _did _find that quite difficult to believe. She had the grace to blush a little bit, and he smiled fondly at her.

"Have you eaten?" he asked her.

"Yes, Molesley saw that I was well fed before he let me out of his sight."

He raised his eyebrows a little further at her.

"Oh, don't be ridiculous, Richard. Somehow I don't think Molesley thinks of me in that way."

He reached forward, wrapping his arms around her waist and drawing her closer to him. Her head drooped onto his chest with a pleasant weight.

"Well, he's a damn fool then," he told her bluntly, burying his face in her, smelling the lavender oil that she dabbed behind her ears, "I've missed you," he admitted a moment later, "It feels so good to have you next to me."

He felt her hand resting against his shirt front.

"I know," she replied softly, "And it's barely been a week. You're right, we do need to sort something out. I need to see you, properly, more often than this."

"We'll find something," he assured her, "I promise you that."

They half lay, slumped against the back of the settee for a while, basking in the relief of being back together after an awkward and frustrating week of relative separation.

After a while, she spoke what had been pressing in her mind increasingly during the past few days.

"Richard, I've never felt like this before. I've never absolutely had to be with someone. I mean it," she spoke softly, almost with guilt, he thought, looking down at his chest, "I've never lain in bed at night and thought of nothing but them. Not even... not even with Reginald," There was a pause for a moment, "Is that so very wrong of me?"

He was quiet for a few moments, what she was telling him just about sinking in. Of course, he had wondered, wondered if in the back of her mind she was comparing him to her husband; not that she thought she'd do it haughtily or in any kind of malice, and yet somehow that had made the thought all the more daunting to him. He had never for a moment thought that she might in any way prefer him, and found it very difficult not to be extraordinarily pleased.

"Isobel, you can't expect to have exactly the same sort of relationship with me as you did with your husband," he told her gently, "Yes, perhaps you do think about us... together more often than you did with him. But once you were married, did you ever have to spend a lot of time separate from him?" She gave this some thought and then shook her head slowly. "You might find our physical relationship more... advantageous, but I'm sure you found him a lot easier to live with than you would me."

She tilted her head back and surveyed him.

"I don't know," she told him rather coyly, obviously reassured by what he had said, "Do you have any particularly dreadful habits?"

"Yes," he told her, "I'm notoriously untidy, the hospital only stays like it is because Martha gets an extra shilling a week to tidy things up once I've been near them."

"You're rather like me, Reginald was always the one who kept things in order."

He kissed the side of her face, taking her hand in his.

"Isobel, you deserve to be happy. Believe me, I'm not only saying it because what makes you happy makes me inordinately happy as well. Someone like you shouldn't have to live their life in mourning."

"You're right," she told him, "I know. He told me to be happy. I know that's what he wanted." 

"Sensible chap."

They were quiet for a while, just sitting there, watching the last of the flames dying. When at last they had gone out, he nudged her to sit up.

"I'll make us some tea before we go to sleep," he told her, lifting the rug from the back of the settee and lying it over her knees to keep her warm while the fire was out.

**Please review if you have the time. **


	10. Chapter 10

**Heck, he's taking the lead now. He's also potentially very out of character. I've realised that there is a danger of this becoming just pure smut. I will try and sort myself out soon.**

"Isobel, I'm a patient man, but what the devil are you doing in there? You've had time to flood the place never mind clean your teeth?"

There was a pause and then the sound of little padding footsteps across the corridor. She appeared in the doorway wearing her nightdress, her hair all pinned back away from her face, looking quirkishly cheerful in her own peculiar way. His pretence of being cross with her was suddenly unable to support itself as she looked at him rather expectantly.

"I shan't be a minute," she told him, "I'm just giving my face a little wash."

"Well, hurry up then," he continued to chide her, hiding his face in his book so that she could not see that he was almost laughing, "I want you in bed with me."

There was a slight pause, before her footsteps returned quickly and came closer as she almost ran and jumped on the bed.

"Careful," he told her, lying happily on her back, with her eyes closed and almost grinning, "You'll go through the floor."

She opened her eyes and looked at him sternly.

"Well, you should have thought about that before you told me to get into bed with you," she told him, "In your masterful and commanding way."

"As I recall, it was you who wanted me to be masterful," he reminded her, bending over to kiss her lips quickly.

"Oh yes, but I was referring more to you ravishing me senseless than telling me to hurry up in the bathroom."

He smiled down at her fondly.

"Are you giddy, Isobel?" he asked, having a strong suspicion what the answer to that might be.

"I am rather happy, yes," she admitted, "And it's never a good idea for me to have tea just before I go to bed."

"And what might I enquire has made you so happy?"

"You."

It was foolish- he had asked, after all, to hear it- and yet at the little word his heart seemed to drop a little in his chest, hearing the sudden seriousness in her voice, the little moment's thought she gave before she said it. He shuffled down to lie beside her, taking her hand in his and kissing her fingers.

"I love you Isobel."

"I know. I love you as well."

He gently took her waist in his hands, kissing her mouth. After a few moments they broke apart, her resting her forehead gently against his chin, her arms wrapped around his neck.

"Richard?"

"Mm?"

"Would you mind telling me something?"

Shifting his arms to wrap around her back and hold her, he waited for her to ask.

"What do you remember about me? I don't doubt that you saw me," she amended herself quickly, as if worried that he might have taken it the wrong way, "But it's been playing on my mind, and I'd like to know all the same."

He regarded her for a moment, very seriously.

"Your eyes," he told her.

"Shifty little things, my mother used to call them," she replied, with half a little laugh, "Said I always looked as if I was up to some kind of mischief."

"Well, knowing you, I would have said that she wasn't far wrong there," he replied.

"They're not that remarkable, my eyes," she said a moment later, "They're a pretty ordinary sort of colour."

"It wasn't the colour," he told her swiftly, "It was the look in them. You looked at me for a tiny second, so unashamedly and full in the face. They were so alive, and it was that that made you stand out; you were a thousand times more alive than anyone else in the room."

"That's not saying much. I vaguely remember those awful medical board receptions and feeling as if I was the only one within a square mile who was still breathing. Quite ironic, if you think about it."

"You were the most lively person I'd ever met," he told her swiftly, "Really, Isobel, I'm only trying to tell you the answer to your question. You were and still are the most beautiful woman I've ever laid eyes on- it's ridiculous to hear you put yourself down like you do- and you are just going to have to start believing that, before I'm forced to just show you. If it hadn't reached me that night that you were engaged, I'd have probably cornered you that night and asked you to marry me. That, or something far less gallant. I could be quite the cad in those days."

It occurred to him that somehow she had ended up underneath him, breathing heavily with a slightly wild look in her eye. He also realised that he had ahold of her wrists and was pinning them down either side of her head to the mattress. Her chest, underneath him, was heaving. He was about to apologise profusely for losing control of himself so easily, when something stopped him. That look in her eye. A challenge.

And then something inside him suddenly seemed to snap completely. He was kissing her neck so fervently and running his hands through her loose hair. Kissing every inch of her that he could reach, running his hands over her breasts, kneading them through her nightdress, tracing one nipple and then the other other lightly with his tongue, enjoying the way her hips raised up against him off the bed at the feeling.

She was beautiful, she was incredible, she was addictive; her excitement was infectious. Gently pushing her knees apart, his hand pushed her nightdress up, ghosting between her legs, giving her barely a semblance of the pressure he knew she needed. Oh, he loved to drive her wild like this. He teased her a little, skirting around the spot she had shown him the other night, avoiding it until she had thrown her head back, moaning at him under her breath.

He pressed against her with his thumb, putting her out of her misery. Her hips bucked under him and he wait a few seconds before lying down beside her, his hand resting possessively over her groin.

"I'd be lying if I said I hadn't thought about this then too," he whispered, "Doing this for you. Being inside of you. Making you climax. And quite a few nights since then. "

He traced a finger slowly between her folds.

"You're so beautiful when you lose control like that," he whispered, moving his finger slowly back and forth, "Come on. For me."

She whimpered a little, her hand trying to reach his between her legs, to direct him again. Moving his hand altogether, he pinned hers back by her side against the mattress. She moaned helplessly.

Slowly, he planted a kiss on her centre, pressing his tongue firmly against her favourite spot. The effect was extraordinary. He felt the rush of moisture and the erratic bucking of her hips as she came before he heard her cry.

He simply held her body until she had ridden out the sensation, touching her hair and whispering that he loved her.

**Please review if you have the time.**


	11. Chapter 11

He leant down behind her to talk into her ear where she sat at her desk, looking out onto the hospital garden. She wasn't quite sure if he did this to avoid them being overheard- though the door was closed- or to drive her mad with the gentle brushing of his breath on the top of her ear, but quite frankly she didn't care; she liked it.

"I'm taking you away."

She looked up at him; seeing that he was not joking a smile crept into her face.

"That's kidnap," she told him, knowing he could see the spark in her eyes, pretending to return to the document in her hand when really she was looking at his hand resting firmly on the wood of her desk, while the other hovered on the back of the chair in line with her spine.

"Only for a week," he protested.

"I don't believe it's the length of time you detain me for, but whether I agree to it that stops it being kidnap," she pointed out, "I will let you know where I stand on the matter once you have explained yourself."

She knew full well that her face was telling him that, whatever he said next, she was delighted by the prospect.

"Scarborough," he told her, "I know a little hotel that looks out onto the seafront, and we can go for walks along by the water. And I can walk with your arm on mine and hold your hand without worrying about anyone seeing. Or we can just stay in," she did not miss the twinkle in his eye as he said this, "And be together as much as we like. That is, if you want to?" he added hurriedly, "You're not worried about what Matthew will say?"

She looked at him very clearly.

"Do you honestly think my son hasn't wondered where I've disappeared off to all the nights I've mysteriously not been at home. He's not a fool, he'd practically worked out that I was with you before I told him."

"And does he-...?"

"Well, I don't think he's absolutely thrilled about it," she told him dryly, "But apart from anything else, if he was going to challenge you over my honour I think he'd have done it by now. I don't mind," she told him honestly, brushing her thumb quickly across the back of his hand, "As long as he can live with it, it can't bother me because it makes me very happy to be with you."

He leant forwards and over her to plant a kiss on her temple and, surprised, she felt herself smile again.

"So you'll come with me?" he asked.

"Of course I will, you silly man."

…**...**

She hadn't done anything like this, not this reckless, since she had been a foolish young girl, madly in love with a handsome doctor. Come to think of it, she couldn't remember doing anything this reckless even then, and here she was now, a foolish mature lady- she loathed to say old- running off for a week with a handsome doctor, whom she could only suppose she was also madly in love with. Life had certainly dealt her an unexpected hand, she reflected as she pressed a dress down in her suitcase and wondered if one more might fit in. Not that she could imagine that they would spend every moment out of doors, there was no point in being dishonest with herself on that score.

She had refused Molesley's instruction that Ellen should help her to pack, hoping that he would not be offended by her overruling him. Somehow she didn't think she'd feel entirely comfortable packing for a week away with her lover with anyone's help. Poor Molesley, she thought, he was so terribly naïve. She didn't think he had caught on to what was really going on at all despite her several night's absence. Not that she minded, she was more concerned on his behalf if he hadn't. Either that or he was a lot more discreet than she ever gave him credit for. Whatever the state of Molesley's naivety or otherwise, she was not having anyone expect Richard seeing the nightdress she had bought. Ellen was a good girl, but she didn't think she could take the look of incredulity it would undoubtedly earn her if she saw it.

She closed the case, pressing it down, then after a few failed attempts, turned and sat on it for a minute. Then, before it had the chance to spring back open, jumped off it and flicked the latch closed.

"Mother? Are you quite alright?"

Oh heavens, she had obviously made more noise than she had counted on jumping on her case.

"Yes, fine, Matthew," she called back, picking the case up off the bed and setting it down on the floor.

There was a slight knock on the door before it opened a touch, and she could see her son peering cautiously into the room.

"What was the noise?" he asked.

"Oh, just me trying to break my suitcase," she told him cheerfully, "Matthew, either come in or go away, please don't hover in the door like that, it makes me nervous." 

He came inside an shut the door. They were both silent for a few moments, but even given that it seemed unnaturally silent to her.

"Have you got everything packed?" he asked politely.

"I think so, yes." 

They were both silent for a few more moments, neither quite looking at the other.

"Matthew," she asked tentatively after a little while, "You are alright with me going, aren't you? I know you don't strictly approve of me, and I'm not asking you to, but if it makes you dreadfully unhappy I won't."

He looked up from where he had been glancing at the floor.

"Will it make you unhappy not to go?" he asked her.

She consider lying for a moment, but decided he deserved the truth. There was no point in having this conversation if they were not honest with one another.

"Yes, I think it probably would."

"Then don't mind me," he told her, smiling slightly at her, showing his earnestness, "If it makes you happy, then I want you to go."

She smiled back, reaching up to kiss her son on the cheek.

"Let me take that," he told her as she returned to the foot of her bed to pick up her case.

…**...**

"You're driving?" she asked him rather incredulously, forgetting for a moment to spare his feelings on the matter.

"Well, how else did you think we were going to get there?" he asked her seriously as he put her case in the back of the car.

"I don't know," she admitted, "On the train, I suppose. I didn't know you could drive, Richard."

"Oh, I can't I'll just work it out as I go along."

She didn't need to see the look on his face to know that he was joking, but thought it best to warn him.

"Don't say that when Matthew's here, or you will get a thrashing. Or Molesley, but I don't suppose you'd get more than a telling off from him."

She saw him grin a little over the bonnet of the car before he crossed to her side to help her into the front passenger seat.

"Or would you rather sit in the back?" he asked, "And travel in state?"

She snorted a little as she closed the door.

"No, I'd find it lonely back there. Anyway, I want to be with you."

For a fleeting moment she felt almost radiantly happy as he got into the driver's seat beside her.

"Is there anyone you haven't said goodbye to?" he asked.

"No, I've seen them all."

With that, he began to drive, and the fleeting happiness set in permanently in her; tinged with an edge of excitement.

**Please review if you have the time. **


	12. Chapter 12

**An exploration of sexuality. Blame Batwings (sorry, but it's true). **

The little high window of the hotel room was open a touch, allowing the last grey light of the evening to fall on the walls. A slight ripple of cold flitted through the room, only just enough to be noticed, enough to heighten the senses by an edge, to wake up the surface of the skin. The window was too high to be able to see the sea from the relatively low bed- the room was on the top floor of the hotel anyway- but enough to glimpse a fraction of the expanse of sky that the prominent position at the top of the cliff afforded. A fire burned low in the grate- but strongly enough to be undisturbed by the breeze that ran through the room- casting the faintest of flickerings in the shadows starting to deepen on the wall.

Completely naked, the tension of a long car journey still wound up in her body, Isobel sat in the centre of the bed, Richard sitting behind her, pressing her back into his bare chest, his hands on her breasts, his lips and face buried in her neck, where hair lay tumbling down over her shoulders. The cold of the air hit the fire that he seemed to be creating beneath her skin with even the softest of his touches in a deliciously exciting, heady mixture, quickening her breathing for her before her body could even get it bearings to react.

She was alright, she was fine, until he started to talk to her she could stay in control. Just about. Sitting there, his lips buried in the side of her neck, reaching downwards to her collarbone, he was unable to speak.

Then she felt his hands leave her breasts. Her protests were silenced by the feeling of his hands on her hips, nudging her forwards. Confused, she allowed him to guide her, pushing her onto all fours before him.

Feeling immensely naked before him like this, she cast a cautious glance over her shoulder. She trusted him, of course she did, but there were some things that pushed at the boundaries, certainly of what she'd ever done before, and probably of what she felt secure in doing as well. Her thoughts were momentarily interrupted by the feeling of his fingers lightly on her sex, betraying how excited she was in spite of her nervousness.

His hands then smoothing over her behind before him, cupping her in his palm, resting there, she moaned almost involuntarily. They slipped then, back over her hip, up over her flanks, to settle once more on her breasts, ensuring that he was securely wrapped around her and over her. She realised now where this was going, and slipped her knees an inch further apart to allow them more stability and him better access.

As he slipped in side her, she felt his lips once on her neck kissing her softly, and impossibly chastely given that at that moment she was feeling every inch of him as he moved slowly between her legs. Sunk inside her, he was still for a few seconds allowing her to adjust to the feeling of having him like this; then proceeded to move impossibly slowly.

"Richard, please." 

"Please what?" 

If he was going to be like this, she just about managed to think, between the nudges of feeling starting to collect in her core, I'm not going to make it easy for him either.

"You know," she told him shortly, stifling a moan, clamping her lip between her teeth.

"No." He slowed just a little.

She jutted her hips frantically back and forward, trying desperately to make him move for her, in vain. However, a moment later, the feeling of one of his hands, moving from where it rested beside hers on the bed to rest on the inside of her thigh, millimetres from where her centre rocked to so his knuckles ghosted over the edge of her folds. She could not stifle a whimper then.

"Richard," she gasped, "Harder, please."

He surged forward.

"Harder," she found herself moaning almost in time to his thrust, her climax building all of the time.

Still he remained largely silent. He knew her secret now and she knew he was saving to drive her over the edge. The truth was that she liked it when they were like this and he whispered things to her that would normally send a flush straight to her cheeks and cause an involuntary jolt in her groin. She felt him take the top of her ear into his mouth, sucking it as he continued to thrust into her.

"Oh, Isobel."

Here he came, his voice low and husky in her ear. She vaguely felt his hand slip away from her thigh back to her breast, but it did not really register; she was listening.

"I love you," he whispered, "And I love you especially when you're like this. I love it when you come for me, I love the sound you make. Yes, just like that. When you're hot, and wanton, and wonderful, so wonderfully mine."

She could barely hear him now, as he thrust hard into her, her own cry drowned out the last of his words. Aware that he was not yet finished, she stayed for the last few seconds that she could on her trembling arms, allowing him to take her hips in her hands and thrust deliciously hard into her, before they both collapsed onto the bed.

…**...**

By the time they awoke, it was dark outside. Pulling the bedsheet around her more for warmth than anything else, she crossed to the without and shut it, closing the curtains, looking out for a moment at the dark expanse of black black sea stretched before her. The fire was still just about keeping itself going, but she took the tongs for a second and added a little more coal before climbing back into bed beside Richard.

Finding him stirring, she kissed his throat, feeling his hands moved as he awoke to hold her to him. She laughed at his sleepy expression of disgust to find her in the sheet, preventing him from her body and allowed him to lift it away from her and to kiss her breasts softly. She wound her hand into the back of his hair softly, kissing his lips once and then simply holding him. She had never felt closer to another human being in her life than she did to him then.

Smiling against his lips, she kissed him once again and then pulled back to look him in the face.

"You can be cruel to me sometimes, Richard Clarkson," she scolded him.

"I don't know," he replied, "You seemed to feel the benefit in the end. You have to be cruel to be kind sometimes." 

"I'll remember that." 

"Is that a threat or a promise?"

She laughed heartily, finding his hand and winding their fingers closely together. Closing her eyes, she raised his fingers to her lips and kissed them as tenderly as he did to hers before letting them fall back to lie between their legs.

"I love you," she told him, "And not in the ordinary sense of the word. Extraordinarily."

"Thank you, I think."

"Please take me seriously, Richard. No one has ever been able to do-... well, that to me before. Not like that."

"Isobel, you can't tell me that you've never had an orgasm before," he told her swiftly, "I know, remember?"

He saw the furious colouring of her cheeks at the word, taking him immensely by surprise.

"Nurse Crawley," he admonished, "You're surely not embarrassed by the word, are you?"

"It's rather different when you're actually applying it to me," she told him quietly, looking at his neck, "When I'm not... when I'm thinking straight, that is."

He smiled, remembering the recent discovery of the way words could affect her at the right moment. Gently, he pushed the side of her face upwards to look at him properly.

"Can I ask you a rather intimate question, Isobel? Don't answer me if you don't want to but-..."

"Richard, I don't suppose I really have anything left to hide from you now."

He paused for a second before continuing.

"How much of this is completely new to you?"

He knew he was pushing her, but it wasn't anything that he would not answer truthfully should she ask him, and he had told her that she didn't have to answer. She was looking at him still, very honestly.

"Quite a lot of it," she admitted, "Reginald and I were... well, we were quite conservative."

"Ah."

"Its ironic, isn't it?"

"It is rather," he admitted, "But thank you for telling me. Do I frighten you, then? Am I too insistent?"

"You're very insistent," she told him, "But I rather like it."

**Please review if you have the time. **


	13. Chapter 13

**Apologies for the delay. **

Perhaps she had been rather hasty. Perhaps she had been very hasty indeed, she thought ruefully; recklessly so, in fact. And now she was not quite sure what to do. One thing was certain; she had felt a lot more comfortable trying this on in front of her mirror at home in her own bedroom than she was now, and even then it had been a push to say she was entirely at ease.

The choice of colour had been silly really. White. Working on the basis that it seemed to have worked on her wedding night, she had allowed herself to go along with it because she liked the nightdress itself so much, but now she realised that the colour had really been more fitting then, in more ways then one. These days it did have a tendency to make her look rather bigger: her hips rounder and wider; her shoulder almost as if they were manly; her breasts gargantuan.

Turning to look at herself from the side, which was difficult in the small bathroom mirror, she grimaced. She might just get away with it without looking like a right old tart. She had accepted that, for the purposes of this evening, she was probably going to look like a tart anyway, but to look like an old tart would be simply intolerable. She decided not to dwell on what this situation she had got herself into could tell her about the extent of her feelings for Richard, that she was going to such nerve-racking extremes to try to impress him. She loved him but, in one way or another, he was probably going to end up being the death of her, she reflected fondly.

Turning her attention back to her nightdress, she wriggled a little bit, trying to see if there could be any more give in the bodice, it was rather... figure-hugging to say the least. And the light in the bathroom was making the fabric of the skirt seem a lot more translucent than before. She could see it half brushing, half floating over her hip, and the curve of her leg beneath. She put a hand to the back of her hair, which was still held up loosely, and dug her fingers in in mild frustration, causing a little bit of it to come loose, staring back at the reflection of her own face now as opposed to her body.

Her wrist felt almost as if it was beginning to tremble. It was quite beyond the limits of belief, how nervous she was. She thought back to all they had done together, all the ways and the pains he had taken to prove that he loved her. He had never been anything other than gentle. He loved her. There was no need to be frightened before him, she realised, he would sooner hurt his own flesh than her, and what was more important, he would not scorn her.

Reassured by this thought, she exhaled and smiled warily at her still-nervous reflection. The thought once again had struck the side of her consciousness of just how much she loved Richard. Often she could not tell, or did not care, where he started and she ended. It was like marriage should be, she thought. She wanted to marry him. The notion had milled around in her head for a while, but she had never put it together before, never silently articulated it like this. _I want to marry him. _

She almost jumped clean out of her skin, never mind the dress, when the cautious tap on the door came.

"Isobel, is everything alright? Only you've been in there for quite a long time."

So surprised was she at been shaken so quickly out of her reverie like this, her voice came out in a high-pitched squeak and sounded rather frightened.

"Yes."

Immediately, she heard the sound of the door handle being turned.

"What's the matter?" Richard was asking almost sharply, sounding concerned, "Isobel, te-"

Peering around the door to see what was happening, the sight of her apparently stopped him in his tracks. The nervousness in her face apparently drained gradually away into amusement, as she caught his awe-struck expression. He simply stood and stared at her.

"Oh for heaven's sakes," she said, half-smiling after a while, his reaction not a little disconcerting, "Richard? Please say something!"

Suddenly she felt young again, young and beautiful almost, under the crown of her half loosened hair under the wonder of his gaze. She felt the beginnings of a smile begin to fold into her lip, as she came to terms with his reaction.

"Isobel, I-..." his voice was low and husky and she was pleased to have taken him by surprise, "Will you come to bed, Isobel? Please?"

She smiled at him, reaching her arms to draw them around his neck, pull him gently to him and kiss him passionately, thankfully. Sensing that he was still in something of a daze, she took him by the hand. She was feeling brave now, she could lead him back into the bedroom, to the bed, their bed.

As they lowered themselves down beside each other onto the mattress, she felt his hands pressing against her hips. She sat back a little, letting his hands explore the creases of the silky fabric on her legs, her arms still draped lazily over his shoulders. His eyes, flitting upwards, fixed on where her breasts were pushed together by the tight bodice of the dress. She felt herself blush slightly, until his lips pressed softly into their curves, working his way along the edge of the lace.

Stopping, he pulled back, his hands still on her hips, looking into her face.

"For me?" he asked.

"For you."

It was then that a thought occurred to her, a thought too tempting to quite shift, it whetted her curiosity.

"Richard," she rested her hands cautiously on his thighs through his pyjamas, "Take off your pyjamas and lie down. Go on," he told him with a smile when he only watched her in confusion, "I want to do something for you." 

Slowly, as if trying to gage what she was up to, he complied. Lying down next to him, feeling the advantage of, for once, having more clothes on than him, she settled herself with her face resting on his chest, her hand stroking gently against his thighs and then slipping upwards and taking his manhood between her fingers. She felt his chest move dramatically with the surprise as he let out a moan of mingled shock and pleasure. Emboldened, she took hold of him more firmly and stroked back an forth.

It was wonder full to feel his reaction to her. His hips moving beside hers, his chest rising and falling rapid and the sounds her was making... now she knew what he had meant. Love had never been this selfless for her before. All she cared about was him.

Quickly kissing his navel on the way, she shuffled down his body and took him into her mouth as deeply as she could, moving her mouth over him, pushing her tongue lightly along. She felt him restraining himself from thrusting into her mouth with difficulty. It excited her madly to think that this was her doing. Carried along with her rapture in his reactions, she swallowed experimentally, and she sensed that it took all of his mortal strength not to let go and spill himself into her mouth. This notion was confirmed when a second later, she felt herself being rolled over to lie on her back, the fabric of her dress being pushed up over her thighs, his fingers momentarily pushing into her, resting her own wetness, before he pushed into her and thrust hard. The friction and heat of their bodies moving frantically together meant that neither lasted very long. Her arousal at what she had done to him was so great and the feeling of him exploding into her was so strong that it sent her over the brink with a cry.

They lay entangled together, the fabric of her dress damp and with a tang of both of their excitements, lying around their legs, and he kissed her softly as if still in wonderment.

"Isobel, I-... Thank you." He seemed at a loss for any other words.

His hands on her bare arms, her drew her body to his and held her tightly. She wrapped her arms around his naked back, kissing the line of his jaw.

"I need you, Isobel," he told her after a while. They were both drifting half to sleep, but she still heard him, "Never leave me."

**Please review if you have the time. **


	14. Chapter 14

**This could be awful. Just a warning.**

"Richard?"

"Yes?"

Wrapped in the bedsheets and each other's arms, his head rested on her collarbone, tucked under her chin. Though she lay slightly above him, that way that his arms circled her easily and securely meant that he was very much holding her. Their lovemaking of hours before felt as far away as the beach they had walked along the morning before, but there was still something alarmingly intimate in amidst the chastity of their embrace.

"I've finally worked out how to put it into words. Will you listen?"

Turning his head, he kissed her collarbone once.

"Of course."

She took a deep breath, feeling his head rise and fall with her chest.

"I've never told you this, but years ago, before Reginald worked properly as a children's doctor, he was in charge of the Maternity Ward at Manchester General, and before I trained properly as a nurse, I would help him sometimes, just when they were short staffed, changing flowers in vases, sitting with anxious fathers; little things like that. You saw all manner of things there, little miracles were just part of the routine. I saw new life at every turn. And death, sometimes, occasionally, which was awful. I thought it was awful, and I thought the new life was wonderful. At least I thought I did," she paused for a second, moving her arms slightly around his back, touching her chin back to the top of his head, "Then when Matthew was born, and it happened to me, I realised that I hadn't had a clue the entire time."

She paused for a little while longer again, waiting to see if he said anything, though hardly expecting him to question her. He was waiting for her to get to the point, and now that she'd started she would have to go on.

"It's like that now. I thought I'd been in love before, but never like this."

Silent, he waited for her to say some more, but was startled that the next sound he heard was her drawing a quiet sob. Leaning upwards to move and comfort her, he shuffled up past her head, wrapping himself around her as much as possible, drawing her soft hair firmly to his chest and holding her there.

"Richard," she spoke so quietly in between her tears, "It's dreadful, and it's wrong of me, but I have to say it. I wish Matthew was your son. I do, so that he'd be able to accept that I want to be with you. Because that's all I want now, or ever. You."

He waited quietly, wondering if he dared say the question that immediately sprang up- treacherously- in response to her declaration. He waited until the sounds of her soft sniffs had stopped at least.

"Will you let me ask you a question, Isobel? Forgive me asking it, and I will forgive you, whatever your answer is."

He felt her tense as she considered for a tiny moment.

"I forgive you."

"Do you really wish that? Or do you just wish that I was Reginald?" he asked her quietly, "Do you wish you had your husband back for your lover?"

The silence that followed was so pure to the point of it being almost undiluted.

"Oh, Richard," she whispered finally, and he sensed that there were fresh tears in her eyes, "How can you even think that?"

"Don't take this badly, Isobel, but quite easily sometimes."

He held her in his arms all the while, but somehow it felt for a moment as if she was miles away, shut up behind her confusion and her grief and her suspended love.

"Do I completely disgust you?" she asked finally, in a flat voice that conveyed utter dejection, "I wouldn't blame you if you said yes. Heaven only knows what you must think of me."

"You couldn't ever disgust me," he told her softly, "You think you're wrong, and that what you feel is wrong, but you're not, Isobel, you're human. You say you love me, and I believe you. You need to start letting people love you back without feeling this terrible guilt you seem to have. Please don't cry any more. I love you."

He moved to lie down behind her, aligning his body to hers, hands resting on her shoulders, arms lying over hers, as he planted a kiss in her neck and felt her cry the last of her tears off. He held her as the last of her tears shook from her body, burying his nose in her loose hair, closing his eyes against the smell of her skin.

"I love you," he repeated when at last he sensed that she was calmer, morning light was starting to creep through the high windows, "Isobel, I can't live without you," his hand wove down and he tangled his fingers with hers, "Marry me."

It wasn't a question.

**Please review if you have the time.**


	15. Chapter 15

**I think by now you've come to expect ridiculous amounts of smut from me. **

**Belated belated birthday present for Cookie-moi! I am generally sorry about my belatedness: blah, school. **

There was something about him holding her hand that touches her beyond expression, especially out in the open like this; silently telling the world that it didn't matter to them what anyone else thought: here they were together, and here they were going to stay. Taking heart from this thought, she moved her head to rest against his shoulder, nestling into the crook of his neck. The sky is getting dark quickly, but they stay there looking out at the sea.

"Do you want to tell people about us?" he asked after a while.

She looked up at him in some minor confusion.

"Richard, we're going to get married. By this, I took it that we would live together- I certainly intend to live with you- and I imagine someone will notice as much before long. Probably Matthew," she looked at him in an attempt at condescension, but was unable to disguise her amusement at his ridiculous question, "He lives with me already."

He looked moderately embarrassed for a second, and it was more than a little disconcerting for her. She squeezed his hand as she spoke, in order to reassure herself.

"Richard, you asked me to marry you. You _told _me to marry you, or very nearly. You can't possibly be ashamed of me, so why on earth would you want to keep it a secret?"

"I thought," he answered slowly, "There's bound to be talk; us marrying so soon. Talk to the effect of what Lady Violet said before. I just wanted you to know that you don't have to endure it if you don't want to."

Stretching up, she planted a single kiss on his cheek.

"Wonderful man," she told him, "But I'd endure all of the gossip in the world to be able to live with you properly. I'd never be ashamed of you for a second. And they'd forget about us soon enough, at our age they'd never be interested for long. And I doubt any of them have the imagination to guess about your fascination with my body."

Mixed in with the amusement in his eyes was hunger and she kissed him quickly but passionately on the lips. As they broke apart, she felt him watching her, felt the pure, grateful love in his eyes as he watched her, and sitting there on the bench, his hand still in hers, she felt divinely happy.

"We could do it now if you like," he told her in a quiet voice, "I made a few enquiries at the town hall while you were looking in the dress shops this morning. If we stay here an extra day, we could get a license and I could marry you before we go home."

She thought about it for a few moments.

"You certainly know how to tempt me, Richard. And you mustn't think I'm not just as impatient as you are," she told him, looking down at their joined hands for a second, " I can scarcely bring myself to wait to marry you. But, if you don't mind, I'd like it if we got married back in Downton. I'd like Matthew to be there."

"Of course," he planted a kiss in her hair, "Of course you want him there. It was careless of me not to consider that, because I've never really had anyone like that."

From his voice, she knew he was not asking her for pity, simply speaking the truth. Nevertheless, it was only then that she realised the true loneliness that his existence must have been before her. Something caught in her throat for a second, but she ignored it.

"You have me now."

…**...**

They walked back to the hotel slowly, enjoying the idleness of their pace, the simplicity of being together, and the fresh draft from the sea. The dark closing in around them, however, made it more chilly and they quickened their pace up to the top of the hill to get back indoors.

Isobel was markedly cold by the time Richard shut and locked their bedroom door behind them, she stood shivering slightly as she removed her coat. She felt rather than saw, Richard's hands taking the coat from her, hanging it up, and then his arms wrapping around her from behind, drawing her close to him, pressing the warmth of his body into hers, warming her thoroughly. She felt a sigh escape her lips.

More intensely than she'd ever felt it from another human being, she felt his love for her radiating through into her body with the heat, making her senses swim, robbing her of her wits entirely. In her head echoed her own words _You have me now, You have me now_. He had her and she had him. Now it seemed as if it really was that simple between them. She felt his lips sink a kiss into her neck. Even without feeling him pressing against her, she could sense his excitement heightening in time and mingling with her own in a heady mixture.

"Richard," she whispered, taking his hand that rested on her stomach in hers and softly caressing his knuckle with her thumb, "I'm yours. I trust you entirely; have me however you want me."

She heard him groan at the words alone, for a fleeting moment experienced a pang of satisfaction that she too could use words to her advantage. Her thoughts were interrupted however, when she felt him turn her around and back her swiftly against the wall. Her breath quickened frantically at the idea, letting him guide her there and hold her, because she doubted her own knees could support her. Pressed up against the wall, she allowed herself to be kissed, undressed down to her corset and underwear, while barely able to muster enough concentration to unbutton his shirt.

His hands deftly reaching around to work the fastenings of her corset, she sighed contentedly as it came free in his hand, feeling his palms and fingers running over the skin of her arm and her breasts and her stomach, she expected- and half-wanted- him to simply unfasten his trousers and have her there and then.

However, he took her hand in his, and led her gently over to the small desk in the corner of the room. Thinking she could see where he was going, she perched herself on its edge, opening her legs for him, expecting him to stand between them. He surprised her by sitting down in the chair. Then, she took in the level that his head was at in relation to her, and was not at all surprised.

"Richard," she told him softly, "You don't-..."

"I want you like _this."_

Running his hands slowly up her thighs, his fingers pushed her knickers to one side for a moment and ran fleetingly over her folds before withdrawing. Then, he lent forwards and mouthed her through the silk, wetness soaking through to meet his tongue. Her hips rolled wildly at the feeling. As he proceeded, pushing the fabric to one side again, slipping a finger inside of her and running his tongue against her, she began to wonder how much longer she could hold on.

But then he stopped, stood up and stood back.

She felt her hips roll once more as he licked the end of his finger that had just used to fondle her, before running his thumb so tenderly along her face, cupping her cheek in his hand and looking at her so clearly that she had to close her eyes, completely overwhelmed by him. She felt his hand in her hair, unfastening the pins and letting it fall down over her shoulders.

She recovered herself enough to remove his shirt, running her hands over his chest, drawing him closer to stand in between her legs. He kissed her again, slowly and thoroughly, his hand resting on her thighs. It suddenly occurred to what was left of her conscious mind that she was sitting here, about to be made love to over a desk. Not that the thought hadn't occurred to her before, she reminded herself.

"What's the matter?"

He drew away, watching her curiously.

She smiled at him.

"Nothing. Nothing in the world is wrong at this moment."

He pressed her back into his chest, simply embracing her, arms stroking her back, lips playing with her ear lobe, as she wrapped her legs around his waist.

"Do you want to move onto the bed?" he asked, "Save this for late nights at the hospital?"

She barely managed to nod in reply, but it didn't matter because he scooped her up and carried her, lying her down on the covers, and stepping back to remove his trousers and shorts. As she watched him straighten back up, lying willingly before him, ready to let him take her, something completely wild and abandoned seemed to take over inside of her. Looking him in the eye, she knew he felt it too.

"Now, Richard."

It didn't take him much more encouragement than that, lying his body over hers, he dealt with her underwear in one swift motion.

"They were ruined anyway," he mumbled, "I'll buy you some new ones."

"I don't care."

She drew his mouth down to hers, kissing him as he entered her, arching her back into him, knowing it wouldn't be long before she called his name.

**Please review if you have the time. **


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